


Demon Trophy

by Manawolfman



Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 20:44:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10421406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manawolfman/pseuds/Manawolfman





	

Like many, my early years can be a blur, mere flashes of clarity in a sea of forgotten memories.  My earliest was a bolt of lightning on a dark night, the flash showing what I can only assume were the chiseled features of my father and the wild hair and feathers of my mother.  I was left to the wilds, I know not why, but my soft skin and stunted wings suggested I was an abandoned runt. 

My next flash was but a few years later, my bloodied claws gripping a deer carcass while three green skinned brutes looked down upon me, messy haired, flat nosed, and jutting lower canines around hardened eyes.  The orcs captured me and took me to their village, a smattering of huts surrounded by dry grass and sparse forest.  They believed me a demon by my red skin, a boon from their war god. 

They sent me to the shaman to be “tamed,” but she met me with somber eyes.  She taught me what she knew, of how the world worked, of medicine and spirits.  My mind expanded, no longer the feral beast my start in life had instilled, and instead distilled into one more in tune with nature. 

It was not long before I was pulled away from my studies, and taken back into the wild to hunt once more, their very own pack demon.  Driven back onto all fours to chase my prey, something was different, as erratic darting of prey turned into anticipated patterns.  I brought much game to the tribe during the day, but took the night to continue my studies on buckskin scrolls. 

I could hear things that no one else noticed, see that which was invisible.  The shaman grew proud of my abilities, but the chief saw little value in the ability to jump at ghosts.  Things changed one hunt when I realized the prey I was following wasn’t just predictable in its simplicity, it was because I could see as it saw things, feel its fear, hear its thoughts.  I tried to talk to it in a voice that required no movement of the body, and it seemed to stop and listen, but that only left it open to my hunting party. 

I tried to tell the chief I could no longer hunt, that I could still be of use in gathering food, and that my claws could climb the trees that bore fruit and nuts, and my knowledge of herbs allowed for the saving of those injured.  I could feel his discontent, and he shouted of how this was a tribe for the strong, not the meek.  I was only 10, and still so much had been expected of me, though the shaman called me Talyn the gargoyle, to the tribe I was their fire demon, red skinned and fiery haired. 

I could not return to the hunt, though I knew it was for survival, the connection to my quarry was too much.  Instead I looked to the open field where the prosperity of our tribe had born a new feat of strength.  They had called it Thudball, as many more would come to know it for the most common sound produced in its activity.  I initially only saw a mere ten orcs running about a field, fighting over a leather orb,  colliding into one another, and cheering when it fell into a net at either end.  I looked upon the burly teens, many standing a foot higher than myself, but I also saw what other couldn’t, an empty void between their ears. 

I was prey to them, a frail female to be crushed beneath their bulks.  But their minds barked simple directions, and I weaved past bodies with a grace unheard of in their muscular forms.  None could touch me on the field, and I met opposition with balls bounced off skulls, passes to eager teammates, and wing flaps that could not fly but still bewildered. 

I was 13 when the neighboring tribe came, not for war, but for sport.  The chief placed me before a sea of laughter, the five foot female before four 6’ plus juggernauts.  Their mocking chides turned to flummoxed uproar as I darted around the field and dodged their titans of gridiron.  The final time was called as I sent the ball soaring from half field, the enemy seeming to barrel from its path, and into the waiting net.  Cheers rained down upon me as I turned to the happy crowd, until a flash of danger came to my mind. 

I turned, but not in time to perceive the ball that struck my head.  The world turned to haze as I felt a gash open in my forehead, a gash I now peered through.  A third eye had emerged, and what it saw was devastation.  A maelstrom of grass and bodies swirled around me, howls and screams pierced my ears, and the pain of others coursed through my nerves.  Darkness fell, and when lifted, nothing remained. 

I left that life behind years ago, and while I now call myself Emily Talyn, many now know me as The Blazing Demon, a Pro Thudball athlete.  I hide myself behind a mask, for no one can see the real me.  Who would want to, I am worse than a demon ever could be.


End file.
